


Buried in Darkness

by planetofthewillow



Series: Buried in Darkness [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Multi, Murder, Mystery, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetofthewillow/pseuds/planetofthewillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a murderer going around the city Arthur Kirkland lives in. Arthur, who already has enough problems managing a book shop, is pulled in for questioning. Who is this murderer? And Why? Both are difficult to pinpoint, seeing as the city is one built by and for killers of all kinds. So the real question is: Who's innocent?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried in Darkness

“Oh, hush dearest, don’t shed a single tear,” the masked man cooed, trailing his razor blade across her exposed stomach. She squirmed, screaming into the grimy cloth shoved in her mouth. Her short brown hair sprawled behind her. The mask the man wore, the face of tragedy, turned up to face her. The perpetual frown seemed to laugh in her face. She sobbed harder and gasped when cold fingers gripped her neck, pushing into her veins. She heard something break with a dry crack and moaned in pain. Cobwebs of red sprawled in her pupils. The man tightened his grip, her trembling pupils crawling down to look at him, to catch some sort of his identity. The mark on her belly burned, she felt hot blood trail down her skin. He stood, letting her drop, her neck twisted and her arms sprawled in broken directions. She looked like a broken doll and her chest ceased to rise and fall, her blank eyes still staring at the man in lethal hatred. The man chuckled and shook his head sadly, kicking her feet away from his path as he slipped out of the apartment.

The dim hallway greeted him. Pale, impoverished creatures peered out of their doors. The man held out the slim gun and pointed it at them. They scurried back indoors, like frightened rats. He smirked beneath the mask and continued his leisurely way out of the building, into the dark night. The streetlamps cut a sphere of gold into the otherwise impenetrable night. He disappeared into the labyrinth of the city.

 

The following morning, Arthur Kirkland leaned against his desk, holding the newspaper before him. A cup of coffee, growing stale, sat in his other hand untouched. His eyes trailed down the small box that said: “Tragedy Strikes Again! _Tragedy, a serial killer previously presumed dead for five years, has struck again! Amy Charleston has been found dead in her apartment this morning at 8:00am. The other residents of the apartment building claimed to have seen a man with a mask exit the room, brandishing a gun, late that night. It has been confirmed that it was Tragedy by his signature marking across her belly. She appeared to be strangled to death and apart from those two injuries, no other marking was found on her.”_

Arthur shook his head, his lips in a doleful frown. “This poor city—where is it going?” He mumbled to himself, feeling immense sadness for the poor victim. He tossed the newspaper in the trash and sipped his coffee, tidying the counter and flipping the sign on his bookshop to “open”. He unlocked the door and waited patiently behind the counter, flipping from the newest addition to his book shop.

Across the street, illuminated by pale morning sunlight, Francis Bonnefoy was opening his bakery for the day. He swept the front door and looked up, catching Arthur’s gaze. He broke into a cheerful smile and waved. Arthur waved back, yawning into his fist.

Hardly a customer passed his bookshop that morning. A crowd, however, migrated towards Francis’s bakery, enchanted by the delicious smells wafting around the street corner. Arthur watched, leaning against his arm and patiently awaiting for anyone—anyone at all to walk in and pick up a book.

Lunch hour struck and besides the little boy who loved books more than his petty allowance would allow, no one came in. Arthur flipped the sign and left up the stairs hidden in the back. His apartment, cramped and tiny, was situated directly above his shop. This allowed him to save money as well as offer help to anyone of his close friends. The word was spread around the city that if one was ever in trouble they could hide away in Arthur’s apartment.

He slipped into his kitchen and rummaged around until he found a package of bread and slices of cheese. He slapped himself a quick sandwich. Siding along with his acceptance at any guest was the all too true that he lacked any sort of culinary talent. The elderly lady living in the apartment complex next door found the kindness in her heart to bring over a plate of steaming vegetables of a bowl of broth whenever she found Arthur’s cheek bones too prominent or his fingers too bony. Arthur repaid her with a book of her choice from the shop and a kind smile.

Arthur pulled his chair over and plopped down; chewing on the bitter cheese and watching the children play on the street below his window. Afterwards he pulled himself back to the unsuccessful day of business.

To his surprise, several minutes later a young woman walked in. Her dark brown hair curled around her tall frame, framing her face that held eyes with a wild spirit incased behind a polite demeanor. She wore a simple pair of dress pants and shirt, not wanting to stand out.

“How can I help you, miss?” Arthur asked.

She looked at him and shook her head, “Just looking around,” she said, a heavy Hungarian accent clinging to each syllable.

“Are you new to town?” Arthur said, exiting his desk and waiting before it. Her fingers trailed down the countless spines. She pulled out a thin novel and flipped through its pages, releasing the smell only new books have.

“Yes,” she replied after a pause, setting the book away and continuing her wandering through the maze of shelves and boxes, all holding thousands of stories and characters and words. Hundreds of authors slept in the pages, ready to fall in love with whoever chose to read them. “I moved here last week and I wanted a book.” She explained, keeping her eyes off of Arthur.

He nodded, “Better watch out. There are dozens of greedy robbers and old men with sulfurous breaths poisoning this city.”

“Like you?”

“Like me what? The robber or old man?”

“Yes.”

Arthur began feeling annoyed. “I can assure you I want lay a finger on you.”

“You thought about it,” she retorted, picking up two adventure novels.

“Why would you think that?” Arthur watched her tuck the books under her arm.

“Why else would you talk to me so much? The answer is no.”

Arthur scoffed and returned his post behind the desk, falling into an uneasy silence. She set four books on the counter and dug around her fat red purse for the change. He tapped their prices on the register and collected the money, bidding her to have a good day.

She stopped at the door, the brown bag filled with her new novels at her side, and she smiled for the first time. “You have not gotten rid of me yet, I will come back tomorrow.” With that she shut the door, letting the bell clank away.

Arthur inclined his head and jotted down his sales. He needed a miracle or else this business would fall into debt and be revamped into an adult store, or even worse another bakery.

Business picked up again, with three other customers buying cook books and penny novels about comedic romances where everything is all smiles and little children in the end. Arthur shut the shop down for the day once the day had leaked out of the sky. Arthur felt he would die behind those glass doors and wouldn’t be discovered for at least a year afterwards. He crept into his bedroom, skipping dinner. He shed his clothing and curled up under the covers. He barely slept that night.

The next morning he decided to delay opening up the shop until after noon. He had received a thin envelope, slipped in beneath his door. It required him to visit the bank in bland, terse letters. The sky was choked with ominous grey clouds, bruised darker in several places. Arthur noticed Francis walk cheerfully towards his shop, digging the key into the door and readying himself for an amazing day Arthur resented.

Arthur clutched the notice in his arms and entered the bank, a tall building tucked away between two taller structures. The lobby, smelling like printer ink and cheap perfume, was already awake and running for the day. Arthur looked around, catching sight of a tall, blonde man discussing matters with one of his employees. She smiled at him, her face dolled up with obvious spots of rouge and blush. Her hair was down. Arthur recognized her from before, she always wore only the plainest of clothing and refused edging even a centimeter into tart territory.

Vash, the head banker, noticed this. He paused in the middle of his sentence and squinted at her. “Are you wearing make-up, Linda?” She blushed deeper and nodded. He frowned and shrugged it off, continuing.

Arthur waited patiently for him to finish and see him. He dismissed Linda and turned to Arthur, his expression still cold but his lips turned into a polite grin. “Arthur, long time no see! I hope you’re in good health.”

Arthur stood and shook his head. Vash patted his back and led him into the blue cubicle. He wore gleaming Italian shoes and a tailored suit that probably cost more than Arthur’s home and shop combined. He sat Arthur down and looked at him seriously.

Before he could say anything, Arthur blurted out, “How is your cousin, Ludwig?”

Vash blinked in modest surprise and rifled through a collection of dull looking files. “He’s fine, I suppose, a bit ill as he hasn’t come in for work lately.”

“I see. I hope his brother is feeling better.”

Vash shot him a warning look and Arthur decided to shut up on the matter. Vash then moved on, smiling in an icy manner, and detailing how Arthur was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Arthur didn’t listen to a word, but only nodded, his mind trailing back to that woman who promised to come back.

Vash dismissed him with a sympathetic look.

Arthur returned to his street and instead of going into his shop, he swerved across the street and visited Francis’s shop. The smell of baguettes and cakes splashed Arthur’s face along with pale gold lights illuminating black-painted walls. Francis looked up from organizing the display of designed cakes. He laughed good-naturedly. “Arthur, how are you doing?”

“Fine, you?” Arthur asked, distractedly.

“You aren’t fine.” Francis said, without missing a beat, “You need money?”

“I couldn’t impose—!” Arthur stepped back, overwhelmed by Francis’s forceful kindness. He paused, saying slyly; “You can’t dedicate yourself to lost causes.”

“I’m not stupid, Arthur. I’m not trying to cover up for my failure with Gilbert.”

“Look, I haven’t opened up shop and all I wanted to say was a hello and how are you doing?” Arthur stepped away for a little girl to examine the floral array of cupcakes.

“I’m fine,” Francis said stiffly, turning to the little girl and speaking in French. She replied in that musical language, like the twittering of song birds. Arthur waved his hand and exited the bakery. He felt worse than he had going in. A drop of cold water landed on Arthur’s face and he looked up, finding droplets of rain shooting down from the disgruntled sky. Arthur hurried back to the sanctuary of books. As promised, the woman came back. Her hair was tied back in a bun and an umbrella was on her forearm. She nodded to Arthur and vanished behind the shelves.

Arthur hardly said a word, for fear of her bitter remarks. She returned to the front and Arthur saw a hard black form protruding from her belt underneath a jacket. He eyed it and she noticed, shamelessly revealing the firearm as she pushed her jacket back. She pulled her wallet from her back pocket, not having her purse that day.

“You can change appearances quite effectively, miss.” Arthur rung up her books, “Are you an actress by chance?”

She shook her head, the wild flame in her eye burning lividly. “No, I’m a detective.”

Arthur felt his stomach shrivel up to the sick of a walnut. “Excuse me?”

“Yes,” she pulled up her badge and showed it to him. Arthur looked it over, feeling his hands shake as he slipped the books into the bag. “Why are you so frightened?”

“I don’t like the police,” Arthur admitted.

“That’s too bad,”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, but you’re up for interrogation. Grab your coat and lock up, I’ll wait outside.” She grabbed her umbrella and popped it open, waiting outside.

Arthur pulled his trench coat on and nervously shut the door. She led him to her police car at the side of the road. He slipped into the back and she took the wheel. Webs of rain poured down the window in beaded streams. Arthur bit his thumb nail.

“May I ask why you’re taking me, Miss…?”

“Call me Elizaveta, just that. And you aren’t in trouble,” she shot him a glance in the mirror, “We only have a few questions to ask you.”

“Why are you taking me to the headquarters then?”

“Headquarters? Whoever said anything about that?” He noticed she wasn’t using her accent.

“Then where…?”

“I’m taking you to a café.”

Arthur decided that no matter how long he would spend with this woman he would never find out who she truly is.

As promised she parked by the side of a small café. Arthur followed her. The perky waitress looked for her name and took them to a small table in the back.

Arthur ordered a small coffee and gnawed his lips in anxiety.

“So,” Elizaveta began, leaning forwards on the table, “Tell me the truth or else we will go downtown.”

“Tell you about what?”

“Don’t act stupid. Tell me what you know about Amy Charleston.”

“All I know,” Arthur wet his lips, “Is that she worked as a translator for a good friend of mine who lives in Spain. He can speak English, Spanish, Italian, and French, and he runs a pretty decent company… Hell, it seems I’m the only one of my friends to get the short end of the stick in life, but anyway; he needs someone to help him out. I only met her once. She was bubbly and nice from what I could fathom.”

Elizaveta nodded, accepting her coffee. Arthur looked at his without touching it. She paid for both. “Arthur, where were you the day she was so unfortunately murdered?”

Arthur looked down, “I was at home.”

“My sources tell me otherwise.”

“Okay, so I was out for half the night with a friend.”

“A lover?”

He shot her a disgusted look. “No, an old drinking buddy.”

She nodded, “And what might their name be?”

“Alfred F. Jones.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Arthur waited in silence, not knowing where to look. He settled on watching a waitress hurry around the room.

Elizaveta watched him, frowning. “Checking out everything in a skirt?”

“She’s not wearing a skirt,” Arthur said dryly.

Elizaveta rolled her eyes, “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“No, I’ll go back myself.” Arthur said, “Good bye and thank you for the coffee.”

She didn’t respond.

He marched back home in the onslaught of rain, projected at a sharp angle by the wind.

Arthur returned home to find someone at his door, head bowed and dime-sized drops of blood falling from them. Arthur rushed over, unlocking the door and letting the figured, huddled in a hooded sweater, inside. “I’m guessing you aren’t here for a book.” Arthur joked. The figured nodded and wrapped their arms around their midsection. Arthur helped them, as they appeared unable to go more than a few steps without stumbling drunkenly, up to his room. He set them on the couch where they curled up and receded deeper into themselves. “Come on, unfold, I was a doctor before I chose the pitiful life as a bookseller.” Arthur said calmly and the figure obeyed, showing a dark stain across their stomach. Arthur inspected the wound. It was deep and continued to pulse blood heavily. Arthur dug up his first aid kit and cleaned it up. Luckily no organs were harmed. Arthur asked the stranger to remove their hood and they obliged.

Arthur’s eyes widened. Amber eyes, hidden behind russet hair, stared at him.

“Feliciano…?”

He nodded, touching the bandage.

“Feliciano, what happened to you?” Arthur asked, walking to his kitchen to make some tea, more so to relax himself than Feliciano.

“I…” the Italian swallowed hard, “I fell.”

“You’re lying and it won’t help you whatsoever.”

“Okay so I got into a fight and they sliced me with a butter knife,” Feliciano admitted, trembling.

“Stay the night, or a few nights, here.” It wasn’t an offer. It was an order. Feliciano nodded meekly. The kettle whistled and Arthur brewed some lavender tea, placing it on the coffee table in front of Feliciano, who picked it up and held it to their chest, trying to warm up with it.

“I’m going to stay with Kiku, even though I was told not to.” He mumbled.

Arthur raised his brows, “Who told you and did they say why?”

“Ludwig said so. He said Kiku was off. He swore that Kiku is Tragedy. That, or Kiku is in an asylum.”

“And you still want to go to him?”

“Murderers are trustworthy,” Feliciano smirked.

Arthur drank his tea in a single gulp and set the cup down. “I’m going to manage to shop for a while. Stay up here, call if you need anything.” Arthur stood.

Feliciano noticed the dark bags under Arthur’s eyes and the sagging of his shoulders. “How long has it been since you’ve last slept?”

Arthur shrugged, “I’m having a bad time lately. The shop’s in disarray and until I can sort out some problems I’m going to be tired.”

Feliciano didn’t bother arguing, picking up a book and flipping through it. He heard Arthur’s footsteps echo down the stairs. He found another news article, detailing another one of Tragedy’s murders. This time it was a teenage boy found hanging by his neck in his bedroom, his entrails spilled beneath him, in the shape of Tragedy’s mark; a six-pointed star.

To Arthur’s great happiness, a decent amount of customers, all students frantically searching for research material, had flushed in. Arthur waved them off, shutting the door. When he found his way upstairs, the smell of food greeted him.

Feliciano was at the kitchen, setting the table. A bowl of steaming pasta, coated in creamy red sauce peppered with flakes of French onion, sat in the middle of Arthur’s small table. Glasses of red wine, both of which Arthur never recalled owning, sat by each plate. Arthur sat down, stammering that Feliciano needn’t have done it. Feliciano laughed, “You’ve taken me in, of course I must repay you.”

Then, Arthur had his first full meal in ages. He toasted Feliciano and drank enough wine to earn him a rosy tint on his cheeks. When Feliciano judged that Arthur had enough, he helped him into the bedroom, ignoring the stinging in his stomach, and letting Arthur slump down under the covers. He was snoring in a matter of seconds. The rain outside had long ceased.

Feliciano found the guest bedroom after cleaning up the dishes. He opened a window, letting the smell of rain enter. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and found several missed calls. Most were from his brother, Lovino. Feliciano held the phone to his ear and lowered the volume, though he doubted even a stampede could wake Arthur at that state.

“Hey, Feli, I wanted to check up on you. Yeah I know it’s weird of me, but I wanted to warn you, don’t go near Arthur. Or Francis. Or Kiku, or anyone in that God forsaken city.”

Feliciano blinked in confusion and pulled up Lovino’s number, tapping out a quick text message. “Why? I just got your voicemail and I’m at Arthur’s place.”

Hardly five minutes passed when Feliciano received the reply. “WTF?!? Get out of there. Leave in the morning.”

Feliciano was growing impatient, “I’m still hurt from Ludwig. And tell me WHY.”

“I can’t.”

Feliciano didn’t bother replying and shut the phone, tucking it back into his pocket and falling into a light sleep. When the first rays of morning touched his face he rose to his feet, checking that he had all his money and his phone. He crept out of the house, still hearing Arthur’s soft snores in the other room. He vanished from the building. The sky was painted hues of pink and blue, a wispy trail of clouds still hung in the air, but insinuated a bright day. Feliciano walked off towards Kiku’s house, tucking his hood over his head. Within his stomach a dull knot of pain still throbbed. He stumbled slightly, feeling light headed. He paused and walked into an alleyway, vomiting into a trash can. A one-eyed, mangy cat dash out from between his feet and hissed loudly. Feliciano grumbled and wiped his mouth, staring at the dark liquid pooling in a box of left-over take-out Chinese food.

He managed to find his way out, blinking black spots out of his vision. His bones ached and trembled. He bumped into several street vendors and apologized in a sloppy mix of Italian and French. The vendor was repulsed, taking Feliciano for a drunk.

Eventually, Feliciano reached Kiku, walking nearly a mile to reach his apartment. Kiku was neither lame nor bound in a straight jacket. Kiku gasped at Feliciano’s condition. The Italian’s lips were black, his eyes bloodshot, and the foul smell of his insides burning pouring out of his mouth. Kiku pulled him indoors and looked him over, calling a doctor.

“What happened?” He asked, trying to remain calm. He set the phone down and kneeled in front of Feliciano, who clutched his stomach and quivered violently.

“D-d-don’t know…” Feliciano stammered, covering his mouth as another wave of vomit climbed his throat. Kiku pulled over a trash can and just barely caught the rancid, inky flow from Feliciano. Having pushed out every last bit of his stomach contents, Feliciano’s consciousness was stolen away and he slumped back. His veins were visible on his wrists, an unnatural purple color.

Kiku felt his pulse, though he could tell it was above normal. However, he did find a mark on Feliciano’s thumb, traced as though with a needle and hardly visible in the bar of light pushed in by the French window. It was a six-pointed star.


End file.
